


The Unmaking

by tunteeton



Series: Omega's Lament [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Sherlock. Long fingers, thin wrists, pale arms, trembling shoulders. Confused.</p><p>Something soft, something irritating, something under... Bare chest, bare back, oxygen in lungs, sweat on skin, panting, stretching. Face on softness. Darkness.</p><p>This hurts. Makes the blood sing in veins, makes hair stand on legs, arms, but not cold, never that, never now cold. Empty, so eternally empty, and alone.</p><p>This is Sherlock, needing, confused, alone. This is Sherlock in heat. He needs to get out of here. He needs somebody, anybody really, he isn't picky, not now, please no. Just somebody to help him. Please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unmaking

**Author's Note:**

> So... I don't know where this came from. It just appeared from wherever these things emerge, demanding to be written _right now_.
> 
> I didn't plan this. I have no explanation for this. I take full responsibility for the horrendous abuse of phrasing and comma.

This is Sherlock. Long fingers, thin wrists, pale arms, trembling shoulders. Confused.

Something soft, something irritating, something under... Bare chest, bare back, oxygen in lungs, sweat on skin, panting, stretching. Face on softness. Darkness.

This hurts. Makes the blood sing in veins, makes hair stand on legs, arms, but not cold, never that, never now cold. Empty, so eternally empty, and alone.

This is Sherlock, needing, confused, alone. This is Sherlock in heat. He needs to get out of here. He needs somebody, anybody really, he isn't picky, not now, please no. Just somebody to help him. Please.

But something is wrong. He pants, tries to look, to understand. His hands. Something about his hands. He pulls, and it hurts, and he has to raise his head, has to see, but that would mean not presenting, giving in to the cramps, accepting his loneliness. He tugs again, and there's sound. He whimpers. Concentrate, concentrate, tug again. Listen.

Metal on metal. Metal around his wrists. It doesn't give. What does it mean?

Hot liquid, so much of it, suddenly everywhere. He squirms on his own wetness, between his legs, on his hard cock, down his thighs. He tugs. He needs. Touch. Please.

The metal doesn't give. His arms are trapped. His stomach cramps. He's empty, so empty. He sobs. He presents. Anybody?

This is Sherlock in heat. There is no thought. There is no elegance. There is a growing desperation. There is something on his legs. Something trapping and warm. It has to go. He squirms on his own lubricant, writhes, kicks, and the quilt is gone. Cold air on his feet, on his legs, on his aching arse. A momentarily relief, then the emptiness, worse than before. He moans, presents, waits. Please. Help.

He needs to get out of here. He tugs. He's stuck. He wails. 

He's alone.

He sleeps.

–

He wakes shaking. He feels somewhat coherent. He forces his head up from the pillow, now wet with his saliva, inspects his wrists.

Handcuffs. He's handcuffed to... to...

It's hard to look, hard to see. Pupils, dilated, he remembers suddenly. Normal reaction, expected, nausea. He moans. The trembling takes him. His wrists shake, the cuffs shake against something made of metal. He listens.

He sleeps.

–

He wakes to noise. It takes him a long moment to understand that he himself makes that noise. He's the one whimpering. He's the one moaning. He's the one begging. He's the only one in the empty room.

He's stone hard and rubs himself against the soaked mattress, but that only makes the ache worse, his emptiness more terrible. He jerks to his knees, plants his face to the pillow, presents, begs. A steady stream of exhausted pleading falls from his lips.

There is a noise. It's not a noise he does himself. He bites his lips, forces himself silent. Listen. Understand.

It's his phone. His phone is ringing. He turns his head. There's... a table. His phone is on it.

He's seen that table before. He blinks, confused. He tries to take the phone.

The cuffs keep his wrists firmly in place. He whines.

Need to answer phone. Need to tell, need to ask, need, need, need...

He lies on the bed, listens to the phone ringing.

The phone stops ringing.

Sherlock cries, but it hurts too much. He's too empty. He's going to break soon.

Please.

He sleeps.

–

He spreads his knees, raises his arse, flexes his back. He's wet all the way down to his ankles. The bed is soaked. His waist is soaked. He rolls his back, forces his legs wider apart and hiccups for mercy. His emptiness is endless.

He's utterly alone.

And then... he isn't.

There is a sound, and there is a smell.

It's a familiar smell, a soothing smell.

It's an alpha smell.

Sherlock shouts. There are no words. He cannot remember any words. He presents with every muscle of his body. He trembles. He hopes.

Please accept. Please take. Please help. Please let me be good enough. Please don't ever leave me alone. Please now.

The alpha is in the room. There are words. He doesn't understand. He's touched. The physical contact moves like electricity through his body. There is a warm palm on his back, drawing soothing rounds on his skin. He needs the touch elsewhere. He whimpers. Oh help help help please. He can't any more. He needs it now, needed it hours ago. Oh please have mercy. He'll be good. He'll be so good. Just have him.

The alpha's smell fills the room. Sherlock smells dry sand and old salt and feels how a new surge of lubricant bursts from his desperate hole. There are lips, trailing a path from his shoulders, along his spine, downwards, downwards. He keens, trembles, waits. His hole twitches and softens, his breath comes in short desperate inhalations against the warm pillow.

A tongue, licking him open. His knees collapse from under him and send him down against the drenched mattress. There's a tongue inside him and Sherlock ruts against the mattress, his cock almost as desperate for contact as his aching arse. The tongue leaves and he wails, but then it's replaced by fingers, diving into him, massaging his own lubrication into his buttocks and balls. He buckles up into the touch and back down into the mattress and feels something close to relief. He hears himself babbling. There might be words, he doesn't know. But the tone, the tone he understands. He's desperate, beyond his capacity, utterly destroyed.

The fingers withdraw. His own voice grows even more despairing. He's helped back to his knees, the alpha's tone a commanding presence inside his mind. He scrambles to obey.

Warm, sure hands against his sides. Soft lips on his back. Finally, a domineering push against his hole, the alpha's cock slowly forcing its way inside him. He tries to plunge into it, to impale himself faster, find Elysium faster, but the strong hands keep him still. Sherlock shudders, submits. The cock fills him, inch by inch. He buries his face to the pillow and sobs. The slow torture goes on and on, as his insides stretch to accommodate the huge cock, until he's finally filled, and it's glorious.

Sherlock throws his neck back and moans. Another hand leaves his side and weaves into his hair, scratches his scalp. The alpha moves his hips tentatively, and the friction inside him and the fingers on his hair keeping him in place prove too much. He feels his cock jerk, and then he's coming, but the alpha doesn't seem to notice, or care. He keeps on moving, longer strokes, faster rhythm, and Sherlock surrenders to the taking, offers his arse to the alpha's pounding. He's wailing again, and then he's coming again, and the alpha has a dead grip of his hair and keeps his chin up in the air and keeps on taking him and taking him and taking him. The pressure inside him keeps growing, and it's only then that Sherlock remembers the knot, which forces his gaping hole even more open, and then it's inside him, and the alpha jerks him up by his hair and bites his neck, hard, and Sherlock screams.

–

There's a knot inside him and gentle hands on his trembling wrists, and then he's free from the cuffs and cries into his pillow. The knot keeps him prisoner, and his alpha bumps his seed inside him, and he's destroyed. He's totally destroyed.

His alpha orders him to move and he obeys automatically, turns to his side and curls around the pillow. Suntanned arms circle him and chapped lips rain kisses on his sweaty back. Sherlock weeps, and sleeps, and when he wakes, John is still there.

John looks at him like he's something fragile and already broken, and maybe he is. Because he can't help but want more of John, everything he has to give. He thinks of his heat receding, and John leaving this bed and feels his heart beat faster, scared and lonely and so very, very needful. And John looks so concerned, so present and lovely and yet so unobtainable, because what does Sherlock have to offer him back? He whines low on his throat, still unable to find words, and John shushes him, pets him and kisses him, and massages his punished wrists.

“Why did you cuff yourself to the bed, Sherlock?” He asks, voice concerned and so very John, but Sherlock doesn't have words, can't answer. He only has one, and when he opens his mouth, it's already on his lips, anguished and so very true.

“ _John_ ,” he moans, and the knot lets him go, lets him turn on John's arms and hide his face under his chin. Almost immediately his stomach starts cramping again.

This isn't over.

Sherlock sleeps.


End file.
